Under His Spell
by KiKi-Kami-Sama
Summary: Christine knows, though does not admit it to herself, that she loves the Phantom. The only problem is, is that everytime he sings she is put under his spell. She wants to know once in for all if her love is real and she will do anything to find out.


**The Auction **

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters.**

**In singing lessons I had to sing Think of Me and my teacher thought it had no feeling into it, so I borrowed the CD from my friend. This is basically what my interpretation of the story was like through rumors of the movies/ book and listening to the music, so no one yell at me that nothing is like any of the Phantom of the Opera's; and this is my first Phantom of the Opera fanfic so don't be mean.**

It is a grey morning and the old run down Opera Populaire has finally been bought out. It had been many years before any one considered owning the mysterious Opera house once again, almost 35 years in fact. Most of the towns' people had the impression that it was haunted by an unknown source of life. A lot of them tried to avoid the house of music and advised to their children that they do the same. Though many the young children don't understand why they are not allowed to approach the building, I'm sure that all their grandparents do.

All who lived in France at the time remember the great disaster that occurred almost half a century ago. The Opera Populaire was mostly destroyed and the damages were huge. The owners at the time immediately retired due to their health. It took people awhile to realize that strange and unusual misfortunes that happened to everyone stopped soon after that tragic event. The people of Paris were pleased, but that did not mean the memory of the Phantom of the Opera was gone. Everyone seemed to have heard of the Phantom, but all the stories were not the same. Some said he was a demon born from a mortal woman, others thought he was a ghost who haunted the Opera house. Although the rumors were all different on the origin of this monster, one thing was clear. He was hideous!

People who "claimed" that they had seen the Opera Ghost say that he had the face of death, a face so terrible even a mother couldn't love him. He had big black eyes sockets, which held his beady little red eyes. His skin was as yellow as parchment and starched horribly across his bony, skeleton like face. His nose was non-existent. He had a huge gap as his mouth and he only had three rotting brown teeth. If that wasn't even enough, the innocent people who were visited by this beast also said one last thing about him. He smelled of death…

I'm sorry; I got off the original story. Where was I? Ah, yes. Many people did not go near the Opera Populaire, but not today. Today people formed long lines to get in into the auction. Apparently, there is a hidden vault under the Opera and they found all sort of valuable items. Everything must go before the new owners arrive and do whatever they were planning to do with it. You might wonder how I fit into this story. I am nothing more than a bystander, once a ballerina from the Opera Populaire. I am not promising all that I say is true, but was a logical conclusion from the events I did not witness myself. As our story starts, people who use to live in this Opera house decide to go for a visit.

"Sold!" proclaims the auctioneer. "Your number, sir? Thank you. Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen: a poster for this house's production of 'Hannibal' by Chalumeau."

"Showing here." said the porter, in a boring tone.

"Do I have ten francs? Five then. Five I am bid. Six, seven. Against you, sir, seven. Eight. Eight once. Selling twice. Sold, to Monsieur Deferre." As I'm looking around all the lots I notice that Madam Giry is here. In my opinion she aged very well for a woman in her late eighties. Her grey hair is tied up in a tidy bun under he black feathered hat. She is dressed in her usual attire, a long black dress. The only place it seemed like she had aged is in her eyes, where you could see all the traumatizing moments in her life. "Lot 664: a wooden pistol and three human skulls from the 1831 production of 'Robert le Diable' by Meyerbeer. Ten francs for this. Ten, thank you. Ten francs still. Fifteen, thank you, sir Fifteen I am bid. Going at fifteen. Your number, sir?"

Footsteps echoed in the empty, dusty theater. I turn round and recognize the Vicomte de Chagny, Raoul. He has wispy white hair, well groomed clothes, and a very expensive silver cane. Last I heard of him, he was on an expedition around the world.

"665, ladies and gentlemen:" continues the auctioneer. "A papier-mache musical box, in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order."

"Showing here." The porter wound up the music box and it plays a sweet melody, which I vaguely remember. Although it meant nothing to me, it is apparent that it caught the eyes of the Vicomte and Madam Giry.

"May I commence at fifteen francs?" Madam Giry quickly raises her hands before Raoul got the chance. "Fifteen, thank you." At the next opportunity Raoul raises his hand. "Yes, twenty from you sir?" Raoul nods. "Thank you very much." Madam Giry isn't going to give up so easily. She raises her hand once more. "Madam Giry twenty-five? Thank you Madam. Thirty-five I'm bid. Do I hear thirty?" Raoul raises his hands and looks at Madam Giry straight in the eyes. Even thought the look wasn't pointed to me, the stern look still sent shivers down my spine. "Thirty. And thirty-five?" The auctioneer looks at Madam Giry and she shakes her head. "Selling for thirty francs then. Thirty once. Thirty twice." He hits down his gavel and the sound echoes in Madam Giry disappointed heart. She had promised to retrieve the music box for her daughter, Meg, but since they lived very inadequately there was no hope of rising any higher than thirty. "Sold, to the Vicomte de Changy. Thank you, sir." The porter brought the object to Raoul and he stares at it admiringly.

"A collector's piece indeed…" He mumbles quietly half to himself, half to the box. "Every detail exactly as she said… She often spoke of you, my friend...Your velvet lining, and your figurine of lead...Will you still play, when all the rest of us are dead?" The auctioneer resumes on selling the next item.

"Lot 666, then: a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera: a mystery never fully explained. We are told ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have restored it and fitted up parts of it with wiring for the new electric light, so that we may get a hint of what it may look like when re- assembled. Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination, gentlemen?"

They reveal the newly fixed chandelier. With a gust of wind all the dust has blown away and the Opera Populaire slowly restores to its old self. Music plays in our minds as we are taken back to the past, back to where Christine was first brought to the theater by Madam Giry. As the music progresses, Christine progresses in growing bigger and bigger, aging with the sounds of the organs, until finally, she is sixteen. Suddenly, my ears explode from the sound of Carlotta high pitched screeching, which she called singing.

**So here's my first chapter. Not promising you I'll get this story done in a hurry since my boyfriend is still recovering from brain surgery in the hospital. **


End file.
